


Young Ravens That Cry

by CharlotteCordelier



Series: Natural Children [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Chickens, F/M, Gen, Jewish Bruce Wayne, Multiracial Selina Kyle, NaNoWriMo, No proofreading we die like mne, Romani Dick Grayson, exurban homesteading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:30:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21690733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlotteCordelier/pseuds/CharlotteCordelier
Summary: Bruce Wayne tries to get his house in order. It would be a lot easier if people stopped moving in.There are different types of ravens, some of which feed their young while others do not.-Ketubot 49b(This work in the series is complete! I'm a sure thing.)
Relationships: Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Series: Natural Children [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558399
Comments: 29
Kudos: 127





	1. May 2009

כי הוה אתו לקמיה דרב חסדא אמר להו כפו ליה אסיתא בצבורא וליקום ולימא עורבא בעי בניה וההוא גברא לא בעי בניה ועורבא בעי בניה והכתיב (תהלים קמז, ט) לבני עורב אשר יקראו לא קשיא הא בחיורי הא באוכמי

 **When they would come before Rav Ḥisda** to register a similar complaint, **he** would **say to them: Turn over a mortar for him in public,** as a raised platform, **and let** that father **stand up and say** about himself: **The raven wants** to care for **its sons, and** yet **this man does not want** to support **his sons.** The Gemara questions this statement: **And** does **the raven want** to feed **its sons? But isn’t it written:** “He gives to the beast its food, **to the young ravens that cry”** (Psalms 147:9)? This verse indicates that the parents of young ravens do not feed them. The Gemara responds: This is **not difficult,** as in **this** case it is referring **to white ones,** and in **that** case it is referring **to black ones.** There are different types of ravens, some of which feed their young while others do not.

-Ketubot 49b

**May 2009**

It was very difficult to get grown ups’ attention when they were not listening. She tried waving from her doorway to Mrs. Lau, but she only waved back. Ms. Wei and her brother did not notice her bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. The trouble was that the boundaries were very clear. She was not to leave their apartment without an adult. It had been two days, though, and she was getting very hungry. There was food, but it all needed cooking, and she was afraid of the stove.

She went to the small, ornate butsudan which was the only thing in the flat that belonged to her mother and not him. She bowed her head, even though it made her face hurt, and she waited. Her stomach growled again. She could not wait much longer. Finally, she lifted her head. She slipped on her shoes at the door and went to the elevator, which she had never been in by herself. She pressed the button and went downstairs to Mr. Bai. It was not very proper, but also Mr. Bai was one of the few grownups that actually knew she didn’t talk, not like her neighbors.

Mr. Bai was behind his dress in his very fancy desk. He spotted her immediately.

“Little miss! My goodness! Your face!” he said in crisp British English, and looked behind her for a parent. “Are you alone today?”

She held her palms together and opened and closed them.

“A book?” Mr Bai suggested.

She shook her head.

“A newspaper?”

She nodded. 

Mr. Bai frowned, but he selected a few of the residents’ newspapers from the stack behind his desk, where he kept them neat and ready for their recipients. She raised her arms and opened and closed her hands. He looked around, a little nervous now, then quickly raised her so that she could see all of them.

She scanned the covers until she saw what she wanted. She didn’t know the language of the paper, much less what it said, but she could see the picture of the mountain, wreathed in cloud, that her mother was meant to be climbing. Next to the picture of the mountain was a picture of a man in a uniform, looking sad. She pointed at it and then she tapped.

“Oh no,” Mr. Bai said. “Young Miss, I’m sure you’re mistaken and--”

Cass shook her head and pointed again at the mountain that, she was sure, had killed her mother. She tapped at the picture and she slapped it with her hand and at last, she began to wail.

* * *

On that very same day, in Gotham, Alfred did something unprecedented in the history of the Wayne family. It galled him. It was irksome, insulting, and even loathsome. It even, as Leslie said, chapped his hide.

Alfred Pennyworth knowingly and willingly opened the door to a reporter.

“Ms Lane, I presume?” he said dryly.

“Um,” said the man before him. “Ms Lane was unavailable. My name is Clark Kent.”

Alfred narrowed his eyes.

“I’m still from the _Planet_ , though.” The man, a tall handsome man in glasses, fumbled in his bag for a full minute, murmuring excuses. Alfred stared, trying to exude patience and not just contempt. Finally, the man produced the proper identifications.

“Very well,” Alfred said, admitting the man and leading him into the house. “This way. How do you take your tea, sir?”

“I’m more of a coffee drinker, I’m afraid. But water is fine.” He pushed the glasses up his nose nervously. 

“As you like,” Alfred said again. Americans talked a great deal about rugged individualism and equality, but he’d never met a stranger he couldn’t cow with an appropriate amount of Anglo disdain.

“Thank you.”

“Mmm.” Alfred opened the door. “Master Bruce, Master Clark Kent of the Daily Planet.”

Clark visibly startled at the title, As Alfred knew he would.

“Alfred,” Bruce said, his tone admonishing. Alfred would not be admonished.

“I shall return with refreshments.”

* * *

“I apologize.” Bruce Wayne stood to shake the Clark’s hand. “Alfred is very British.”

“Not a fan of the Fourth Estate?” Clark smiled affably. Lois had told him on more than one occasion that his smile, which was genuine and ‘sunny as shit,’ was his best weapon. Wayne did not seem to be buying it. He looked like he’d been carved out of marble or maybe painted by a Dutch master, if Dutch masters painted black turtlenecks. Right. Less aw shucks, then, and more down to business.

“He’s from the Disraeli school of press: never complain, never explain. Please, have a seat, Mr. Kent.” 

He sat down, on a beautiful upholstered sofa. The room was formal, but not too ornate. It was clearly for company, with maple shelves and various objets d’art that showed the collector’s interest in both beauty and eccentricity. He doubted that the curator was Bruce, who had been on his round the world sabbatical until just this January. His mother, perhaps?

“That’s fair enough. And please, call me Clark.” He pulled out a small recorder, but didn’t turn it on. “Before we get started, I have to admit to some curiosity. Can I ask why you reached out to an investigative journalist from Metropolis? Rather than a society columnist here?”

“Ah.” Bruce steepled his fingers together. “Well, that’s Alfred’s influence also. He hasn’t forgiven any of the local papers for the coverage around my parents’ death.”

“He’s been carrying a grudge since the eighties?” Clark’s eyebrows rose above his glasses. He’d read some of that coverage. Some of it was fair. Most of it was breathlessly sensational. And some of it was, well, exploitative. Putting a weeping, shell-shocked child on the front page probably sold copies in the short-term, but it certainly hadn’t engendered any goodwill. No wonder the Gazette hadn’t gotten the interview.

“Yes, and I anticipate he’ll want something of the sort carved into his tombstone.”

“A little respect for the elderly, if you please.” Alfred brought in a small, noiseless cart loaded with fragrant coffee, fresh baked goods, and assorted finger sandwiches. “You ought to be setting a better example for the boys.”

“The boys are fine,” Bruce said and smiled. The smile made him look 200% more human.

“The boys are learning to throw javelins with Ms. Saunders. If there are any avian fatalities, I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

“Thank you, Alfred. I’m sure she’s supervising closely.”

“The confidence of youth,” Alfred dismissed him on his way out of the room. 

“Avian fatalities?” Clark asked, struck by the rapport between the two men which was both warm and formalized at the same time.

“While I was abroad, Alfred took up several hobbies, including raising chickens. They’re all named after Oscar Wilde characters, with the exception of a special European breed that he bought to impress his girlfriend. Her name is Mae West. The chicken, not the girlfriend.”

“Wow. Okay,” Clark said. “I’m turning on the recorder now, because I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t get more of this on the record.”

“Alright,” Bruce said mildly. But he didn’t say anything more about Alfred or the chickens. Damn.

“So,” Clark pulled a notepad out of his inner jacket pocket, “I have a list of questions that my editor really wants me to ask, but I think that would end with Alfred poisoning my next drink.”

Bruce smiled tightly. Ah. It appeared that Perry White’s reputation had preceded him. This assignment should have been Lois’, but Perry had pulled her to cover the Camp Liberty deaths. And Clark couldn’t think about that too much, about Lois in a bulletproof vest and helmet, or he’d give himself heartburn.

“What I think I’ll do instead,” Clark went on, “is let you take the lead for now and if we happen to run out of time before I get to asking those, so be it.”

“Agreed,” Bruce said. 

“Deal.” Clark turned on the recorder. “I have to ask. Did I hear that right? Are your sons outside playing with javelins?”

“Oh yes. But I’m almost certain their instructor has blunted the tips.”

“Honestly, Mr. Wayne, I can’t tell if you’re having me on.”

“If only I were.” He got a fond sort of look on his face, like maybe his eyes were trying to smile. “Their new instructor is a PhD student in antiquities at Gotham University. Tim’s parents were archaeologists, as you know. It’s not my field at all, so I think he enjoys engaging with someone knowledgeable. Dick is more of a kinetic learner. Thus, the javelins.”

“It’s not what most readers might think of as a traditional upbringing.”

“No, I suppose not. But I don’t have much first hand experience with traditional upbringing. And the boys don’t either, frankly. I’m on the receiving end of lots of excellent advice from a trusted physician and I’ve been taking calls from child development experts, too.” For a moment, the mask of measured distance slipped. “I am trying very hard to do right by my sons.”

“I have to warn you, this is one of my editor’s questions. But there is some skepticism out there, about how you could not have known about them earlier. That you might be hiding behind the disgraced Harvey Dent.”

“Of course.” Bruce looked genuinely pained. “Not knowing...it’s something I regret. Deeply. There are some civil suits pending, so I’m not able to disclose too much. I can tell you that neither I nor any family associates are plaintiffs against Mr. Dent. It’s apparent that he was unwell for some time.”

“But you are plaintiffs in a case against his firm.”

Bruce smiled tightly and said nothing.

“Sources say you’ve hired Rachel Dawes, who recently left Mr. Dent’s firm to begin her own.”

“Those sources are correct.”

“Okay,” Clark made a note. “It’s safe to say that your fatherhood was a little more abrupt than most. What is it like to become a family of three almost overnight?”

“Well...it was certainly abrupt, as you say.” The fond look came back. “In many ways, they’ve adjusted much better than I have. I often feel unequal to the task. I never fully appreciated, before, how daunting it must have been for Alfred to assume guardianship of me. I always felt competent to manage my own affairs, before this. The learning curve has been steep.”

“I cannot imagine,” Clark said genuinely, thinking of Lois and a ring he’d hidden in his childhood bedroom. She would have found it anywhere within forty miles of their apartment.

“They are so resilient. And they’re so funny. No one told me that kids could be so funny.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Bruce visibly stopped himself from saying more.

Clark felt himself wilt a little. Of course, privacy would be paramount. Never complain, never explain. He was preparing himself to ask another Perry question when there was the sound of breaking glass somewhere off in the house, followed by a thin wail.

“One moment,” Bruce Wayne said shortly, then rose and sprinted out the door. 

Don’t be a coward, Smallville, said Lois in his head. Clark turned off his recorder, set down his notebook, and followed the story to the kitchen. He hung back, hands in his pockets, the picture of innocent observer. Inside the kitchen, Bruce was on his knees in his fancy slacks, checking the bare feet and hands of a small boy in jeans and a Roxbury Fielding sweatshirt. Around him was a wide radius of broken crockery.

“I was only practicing my form,” said the smaller boy, hiccuping a little as he wiped his eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” said an older boy, who was also bare-footed, but standing on a chair to avoid the shards. “It was only one of the everyday bowls. Alfred said so. Hey, I bet Kendra will let us put it back together like an art-i-fact.”

“Dick’s right,” Bruce said, putting his arms around the smaller boy, who must be Tim, and lifting him off his feet so that he could cling to his father. “It’s only a jar and now you can put it back together again for fun.” Tim buried his face in Bruce’s turtleneck and tried to stop crying.

Behind Clark, someone cleared their throat officiously. He jumped a little.

“It’s all off the record,” he said on reflex.

“You’re damn right it is,” the butler said icily. “Now if you’ll move your interfering bulk out of my way, I need to clean the floor.”

“Come on, boys. Let’s get out of his way.” Bruce turned around and offered his back to the elder boy, who hopped on nimbly. He carried them that way, one in front and one behind, all the way back to the study. As soon as they were in the room and on the carpet, Dick hopped down and clambered onto the sofa where Bruce sat, Tim still inconsolable in his lap.

“I’d like to record,” Clark said. “But you’d have final say about including anything the boys talk about.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Bruce nodded. “Boys, this is Mr. Kent. He works for a newspaper in Metropolis.”

“Do you sell papers?” Dick asked.

“I try.”

“How does it work? Do you sell them yourself? Have you seen the printing presses? Kendra is threatening to make us cast movable type, whatever that is, but Alfred says we can’t because of the lead. Do you use movable type? Is there lead in your movable type? Do you interview lots of famous people? How is Bruce doing? Is he a good subject?”

Clark blinked under this onslaught, unsure which question to answer first.

“Clark, this is Richard, but he goes by Dick.”

“Hi!”

“And this is Tim.”

Tim gave him a little wave. 

“Are you ready to get down?” Bruce asked. 

Tim shook his head.

“Okay. So, Dick. Do you want to tell us how javelin practice went this morning?”

“Well first we went for a walk to look for a good place to throw them and the whole time Kendra was telling us about Egypt and how they were used for hunting and for fun and for war and, oh, I forgot to say, they find them in tombs all the time, which means that the dead Egyptian person thought they were going to need it in the next world and then I got a little sad because.”

“We started thinking about it,” Tim whispered.

Clark almost asked about what, like a dope, but he stopped himself in time. He thought about the two boys and two sets of parents dead in senseless accidents, one intentional. 

“Oh,” Bruce said. “And what did Kendra say?”

“Kendra said that she wasn’t a thata...a thata…”

“Thanatologist,” Tim finished.

“Yeah, that. But she said that the Egyptians thought that dying was just an interruption. And that the soul was absolutely immortal. Which means it could never really die. Even if the body did.”

“And after that,” Tim continued, “The soul passed to the A’Aru, the Field of Reeds. And there everything that was lost in death would be restored, including families. And then she said if we had anymore death questions we had to ask you not her.”

“And I have some,” Dick proclaimed. “Bruce, when we die, do you think--”

“Dick, I think this is a good opportunity to use your question journal.”

“Should I get it now, or…?”

“Yes,” Bruce said quickly. “And take Tim with you. I think it’s almost snack time.”

“Okay! Come on, Tim!” Just like that they were up, moving, and gone. The door fell shut behind the boys and Bruce exhaled heavily.

“Wow,” Clark said. “Is it like this all time?”

“I would say that was a representative sample, yes.”

“Wow,” he repeated himself. “Thanatology, huh?”

“That’s off the record.” Bruce’s voice was, without warning, absolutely Arctic.

“Of course.” Clark agreed, keeping his tone mild as milk. “Honest, Mr. Wayne. I have no intention of violating anyone’s privacy, least of all a couple of kids’ who have already been through the wringer.”

“Oh fuck.” Bruce leaned forward and put his hand over his eyes. “Can we go off the record for a minute?”

“Record is off.” He hit the button and scooted away from the device for good measure.

“I can’t believe the antiquities scholar is better at this than I am.” 

“Well,” Clark said after a long moment of silence. “I think you’re doing alright. Of course, I’m new here.”

“They want to ask me death questions.”

“Well, sure.” 

“Mr. Kent, when they sent you down here instead of Ms. Lane, did they happen to mention what kind of medicine I’m going into?”

“They did not.”

“Pathology, Mr. Kent. Forensic pathology.”

Clark whistled through his teeth, just like his Pa.

“Exactly.”

“Tell you what,” Clark offered. “You can blame the death questions on me, and then you can fob the boys off on Alfred.”

“Do you think that would work?”

“It’s how Lois and I handle our editor all the time.”

“Huh.” Bruce doesn’t deny it. “In exchange for what?”

“A follow up interview and a to-go bag of some of this food, provided it isn’t spiked with arsenic.”

“Deal.”

* * *

> Four months ago, Bruce Wayne was on his way to completing medical training in Paris. Three months ago, he discovered the existence of a son he never knew, and he became a father. Two months ago, he became a father again, with the discovery of a second son. Today, the boys are engaging in war games inspired by the Ancient Egyptians. Bruce Wayne is meeting with me, but it’s clear he’d rather be used for target practice. 
> 
> “It was certainly abrupt,” he admits with characteristic understatement. For years, ever since he began studying medicine at the Sorbonne, the Gotham press has waited breathlessly for Bruce Wayne to return home and rejoin them. He appears to be doing so in deed, rather than word.
> 
> Shortly after this, as is natural for kids their age, Richard and Timothy insert themselves into the interview. A ceramic mixing bowl has been broken in the kitchen and there are tears. The boys comfort one another and Bruce comforts the boys. They join us in the sitting room, where Richard begins stuffing madeleine cookies in his hoodie’s front pocket, while he asks pointed and informed questions about my job. Timothy has not quite recovered from the crockery incident and stays closer to his father.
> 
> “I always felt competent to manage my own affairs, before this,” Wayne confesses. “The learning curve has been steep.” He appears to be conquering this curve, even if the pastry theft has escaped his notice. For the moment, domestic crisis has been averted. Once equilibrium is reached, the boys are off again, for afternoon snacks in the kitchen.
> 
> “I never fully appreciated, before, how daunting it must have been for Alfred to assume guardianship of me.” The impression is one of a man taking his own measure. He seems painfully aware of how his own childhood has come full circle. Now he is the guardian of children whose parents have been lost to them. Bruce Wayne is not living an unexamined life.
> 
> Having taken leave at the Sorbonne shortly after the revelation of his fatherhood, Wayne will continue his education with medical residency here in New Jersey. He acknowledges his good fortune to have allies like the aforementioned and redoubtable Alfred, as well as a family friend and fellow physician. On the subject of his romantic life, he is characteristically silent. But he seems almost in awe of the boys, whose presence might have been a surprise, but not a wholly unwelcome one.
> 
> “They are so resilient. And they’re so funny. No one told me that kids could be so funny.”

* * *

“I like this Clark guy,” Selina said. “He made you sound like a real catch. Is he cute?”

“He’s ninety years old with bad dentures.” Her kitten had lost her fear of Bruce and was now exploring some of his more tender areas. He was face down on her bed, covered by a sheet from the waist down.

“I’ll bet he’s cute. Is he more James Dean or Cary Grant or Spencer Tracy?”

“Like the Cryptkeeper.” Bruce said, holding very still as the cat continued to knead his posterior. Until the claws came out. “Ow. Kyle, get this thing off me.”

“Be nice to Bettie Page, she had a rough childhood.”

“Get in line, Bettie,” Bruce growled, but he didn’t make any move to actually eject the cat from bed.

“She’s making biscuits on you,” Selina said, and began hunting for her phone. “It’s precious.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Say cheese.” She held up the phone, angling it to get both Bruce and Bettie Page in the shot. Bruce just glared and then face planted into his pillow. Oh well, his derriere was his best angle anyway. Bettie Page purred ecstatically as Selina took video. The kitten’s palate hadn’t been fixed yet and the bottle feedings were a little gross (especially with the nipple extension) but she was. so. cute. 

“Are you done?” Bruce asked, voice muffled.

“Yes,” Selina lied. He looked up and into the camera, sighed, and put his face back down. She stopped recording, set the phone down, and snuggled up in bed next to him, careful to not disturb Bettie Page. “Okay, really done now. She likes you.”

“She likes parts of me.”

“She and I have that in common.”

“I want to ask you a question, but I can’t tell if it’s rude or not,” Bruce said. 

The longer they knew each other, the more often he felt comfortable starting conversations like this. Sometimes the questions were rude (e.g., Do you think you became a stripper because you didn’t have family role models?) or just awkward (e.g., Should I be subsidizing your rent or can you actually afford to live here?). Selina recognized that Bruce’s social education had been guided by Alfred, who would never dream of asking these things directly. And he hadn’t really dated anyone long enough to learn how these conversations happened on their own.

“Alright, I’m ready,” she said.

“Do you not like the boys?”

“What?” That was definitely not the question she was expecting. “Bat, I think the boys are darling.”

“You only visit on the weekends,” he pointed out. “And you never join us when we do things in the city.”

“It’s complicated,” she said and sighed, pushing herself to sit upright against the headboard and tugging the sheet up around her. On a whim, she reached out and picked up Bettie Page, holding her close, baby style. Bruce sat up beside her and pulled the heavy silk quilt up around them.

“If it’s not the boys. Is it me?” he asked gravely.

“No. Give me a moment to think about how to say this.” The longer they knew each other, the more often she felt comfortable having conversations like this. Talking about things was... _awful_. Selina _loathed_ it. But Bruce deserved to understand, so she talked. She suspected they might actually be good for one another, but tried not to dwell on it. Bettie Page purred like a motor and began to drift off. “I know I told you the night we met about where I grew up.”

Bruce nodded jerkily.

“It was the best place I could have possibly ended up, Bruce, and I mean that sincerely. I don’t know if it was your parents or some functionary, but that home was the best place for me and for a lot of kids like me. But there are some parts of being an orphan that nothing can insulate you from.”

“I know that.”

“It’s different, though, when it’s just you. I had a friend, for a while, like maybe a year or two. We were bunkmates and best friends. But then her social worker found a relative, and she got taken away. You had Alfred, you know? And I...didn’t have anybody that was just mine. And so when I see the boys.” She cleared her throat. “I think it’s hard to be around kids that remind me of me. And I think it’s hard to see kids like me getting what I didn’t get.”

“Selina,” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

“You could have Alfred, too. If you wanted. And Leslie.”

Absurdly, that was what made her cry. She put one hand over her eyes and held Bettie Page with the other.

“Oh shit.” He said. “I didn’t mean. Oh no.”

“It’s okay,” she said, trying not to laugh at his face and cry at the same time, but just confusing herself. “It’s not bad crying.”

“Should I. I should. I’ll make coffee.” Bruce looked ready to throw himself out a window. If she let him go make coffee he might never come back.

“No,” she said. “You have to stay.”

“I do?” he looked both bewildered and a little alarmed.

“Bettie Page wants you to stay.” Selina could have slapped herself. She sounded like a third grader. Bettie Page indeed. 

“Oh.” He blinked. “Well, if Bettie Page wants me to stay.”

“She does.” Selina sniffed and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. 

“Okay.”

“I do, too,” she said, a little teary.

“Okay.” He scooted back towards her and lay down beside her with an arm around her waist while she cradled her little weird kitten and tried not to cry about how good it felt.


	2. Chapter 2

“Did the kitten live?”

Leslie almost dropped the vase of roses. She turned back from the clinic’s front door to glare at the source of her surprise.

“Sorry,” he said, breathing a little fast himself.

“It’s okay,” she said, automatically. The kid was thin, gray, and his clothes had that look of grime that only came with a certain number of nights spent homeless. Then, her brain caught up. “Kitten?”

“Yeah, I...I brought one in.”

“Oh!” Jesus, he looked worse. “Here, come hold these while I unlock the door. It was Peter, wasn’t it?” 

Leslie let them both in. Peter went and sat down on the waiting room bench without being asked. He looked...peaky. That’s what Alfred would say, if it were one of the kids. Alfred would give Peter hot, milky tea with lots of sugar and a sandwich and put him to bed with one of those dreadful animated films.

“What about the kitten?” Peter asked.

“She’s doing very well, I’m happy to say. She lives with a friend of mine and she’s going to have her mouth fixed soon.”

“What’s her name?”

“Bettie Page.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“Well, she’s a funny cat. And spoiled rotten, let me tell you. Hang on a minute, I’ve got some more crackers in the back that are about to go bad on me.” 

Leslie grabbed several fistfuls this time, and juice boxes, and even dipped into her own stash of Pop-Tarts. (Alfred could never know about the Pop-Tarts.) The food would keep and there were some actual vitamins in there with the refined sugar. She dumped it all into an old lunch box along with her own business card this time. 

“Those are really pretty,” Peter pointed at the roses and pretended like nothing was happening when Leslie forked over the bag.

“Aren’t they? My...beau grows them. He won’t tell me his secret.”

“A bow?”

“It’s a fancy word for boyfriend,” Leslie said, somewhat shamefacedly. “For when you’re embarrassed to have a boyfriend.”

“Why would you be embarrassed to have a boyfriend?”

“Good question.” Leslie cut her eyes sideways. “Did you run over here, Peter?”

“No,” he said defensively.

“Okay.” She bit her tongue before she could ask if he was short of breath often, if anyone else had noticed, if he knew the statistics involving the ACE study and refractory asthma. The answers were yes, no, and no. “Those ones are called Double Delight.”

“They have a name?”

“Well. Roses are very fancy I guess.”

“Huh.” He scuffed his feet on the floor. 

“You know, you can come around any time.”

“I know that.” The biting, defensive tone was back.

“Good,” Leslie said firmly. “I hate repeating myself.”

He slipped out of the waiting room sometime during the morning STD panel rush that always followed the true flush of spring. School was out, work was out, there were lots of picnics with lots of cold beer. And lots of regrets. Then a mason came in with his pinkie finger just dangling off his hand by a thread and the ensuing fight about whether or not he needed a real hospital (the phrase “just put it back on already” was thrown around) pushed all the thoughts about Peter firmly out of her head.

* * *

“Can I help?” Tim asked quietly, at Alfred’s elbow.

Alfred looked down and stopped himself from issuing an immediate denial. The fact was the Tim just seemed too small, too slight for anything more strenuous than board games. Bruce, for all his melancholy, had been sturdy and resolute. Tim had all the melancholy and none of the robustness. Alfred was working hard at it, but he couldn’t tell if the boy was eating enough. A small mountain of butter went into his grilled cheese and additional heavy cream into his tomato soup. To no avail.

Leslie told him not to worry, that Tim was low on the growth charts, but not dangerously so. But all Alfred could see was the way his shoulder blades shadowed his back even under heavy sweaters. He had gone back to Roxbury Fielding, though. Alfred had happened to overhear a phone conversation between Bruce and the school. Tim was quiet and solitary, but completing all assignments on time. Leslie called him a recalcitrant eavesdropper and busybody, but Alfred felt he was perfectly entitled to reconnoiter in his own home. Some days Master Bruce communicated only in grunts.

“Alright,” Alfred said to Tim. And added, “Put your coat on.”

“It’s not even cold!”

“Your coat please.” Alfred knew it was May but what could you do.

He should have anticipated that Tim would be good with the chickens. He was quiet, respectful, and learned quickly, imitating Alfred’s gentle handling. He even repeated Alfred’s gentle words: very good, miss; thank you, ma’am. The ladies were a little put out at the present of the stranger, but they made no real objection to his worthy attentions. When they had finished collecting the eggs and brought them indoors, Alfred turned to help Tim out of his coat.

“That was very well done, Master Tim.”

“Thank you!” Tim flushed with pleasure.

“Don’t tell Master Richard I said so, but you are a far superior egg retriever.”

“He has what my teacher calls poor impulse control,” Tim whispered.

“I prefer to think of it as natural high spirits.”

“Natural high spirits,” Tim repeated. “I like that.”

“Can I make you a snack? Some apples and peanut butter?”

“Sure, I bet Dick’s hungry.”

“Is there anything in particular that you would like?”

Tim shrugged. Alfred sighed inwardly. One day he would crack this code. He’d jumped out of airplanes with fully automatic weapons strapped to his body. He would cook and bake until he found something Tim would eat and ask for seconds.

In Bruce’s study, the phone began to ring.

* * *

Selina, who’d had PT and pilates with Harley that day, slept through the first five minutes of her phone ringing. It was only when it stopped and started ringing again that Selina reached out for her phone. Two AM? From a blocked number? Some of Bruce’s numbers were blocked. She hit the green button.

“Leslie.” It was a lugubrious voice. A lugubrious, British voice.

“Alfred?”

“‘Tis I.” His tone was theatrical and...elegaic.

“Are you drunk?”

“Alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, may produce all the effects of drunkenness.”

“Oh Jesus.” She held the phone away from her face for a moment. “You drunk-dialed Selina, not Leslie.”

“No, no, right you are. I’ve already spoken with Leslie.”

“Then I think you should probably go to bed.”

“Oh, Miss Kyle. You are kind, even if I thought you a bit of a strumpet in the beginning.”

“Wow. Okay, sweet dreams, Alfred.”

“Wait! Wait. Forgive me. I am a trifle disguised.”

“Yes. You are.” It gave Selina pause. Alfred enjoyed a pint or a restorative glass of sherry. But he wasn’t a hard drinker. “Alfred, what’s wrong?”

“I shouldn’t say.”

“You drunk-dialed me, sir. Not the other way around.” Selina knuckled a little bit of sleep from the inner corner of her eye.

“Rachel Dawes has been here.”

“Who? Is that another Wilde reference? I’m not awake enough for Wilde.”

“The lawyer.”

Well now she was awake enough for Wilde. Selina sat upright, prompting Bettie Page to make a small sound of discontent. Yellow eyes turned towards her in the darkish bedroom, watching.

“Yes, that lawyer,” Alfred confirmed.

“There’s no trouble with the boys’ paperwork is there?”

“No, indeed. But their sister is another matter.”

Selina fell backwards onto the pillows and made a noise of strangled frustration. Bettie Page crawled onto her belly and began making biscuits in her diaphragm.

“I would have let Master Bruce tell you himself, but there’s an increased level of interest in the family since the publication of Master Clark’s article. And it’s very likely that he’ll still be on the phone with the consulate when this news begins to break.”

“The consulate?”

“Yes. Miss Cassandra is currently in Hong Kong and there is some confusion about her situation.”

“But she is Bruce’s?”

“It appears so. Her parents disappeared attempting to summit Lhotse last week. They had successfully completed several other eight-thousanders and apparently proceeded with undue confidence. Additionally, since there is no trace of them, it is unclear whether or not the parents’ death should be recorded in Nepal or in Tibet. As a result, the authorities in Nepal have yet to issue an official death certificate, and the government of mainland China will never recognize one issued in Tibet. Tibet will not allow China to issue one before they have, so there is some hurry on their side. Nepal would rather not be involved. So the poor child is in some administrative limbo.”

“What’s next?”

“Miss Dawes is already on her way to the house. I have roused someone at the charter agency who can get her on a plane before dawn. Properly equipped, she has some hopes of eluding the red tape.” 

How much US currency that would take, Selina didn’t even want to know. Let this be the last one, she thought. And then: well, at least it’s a girl. She made her hand into a fist and knocked herself gently on the forehead. 

“Okay, let me get a bag together. I’ll be there in an hour. And I’m bringing the cat.”

* * *

His Council of War had convened at the kitchen table: Alfred (nursing coffee and nibbling biscuits), Leslie (nursing Scotch), Rachel Dawes (laptop open and resigned to her face), and Selina (stoic and cuddling Bettie Page). Bruce sat down at the head of the table. His eyes were gritty and hot. He’d been awake since Rachel had first called some time...yesterday? His spine felt like cardboard.

“You know why we’re here. Thank you all for coming.”

“You know the boys are listening on the back stairs,” Selina interrupted. She had come straight over, still in her yoga pants and Beyonce sweatshirt.

“They are?”

“Dick, Tim, give it up,” Leslie said and the boys came tiptoeing in. 

Dick was wearing his Iron Man pajamas which were truly garish, but he loved them. Tim was wearing a huge souvenir t-shirt from the Louvre and plaid pajama pants so long that he tripped over them. Bruce caught him and hauled him onto his lap without even thinking about it. Tim didn’t seem to notice, just rested his head sleepily against Bruce’s chest. Dick grabbed an empty chair from the corner, scraped it across the floor, and took a seat beside his father.

“Another one?” TIm asked, already starting to nod off.

“Yes,” Bruce said. He felt some shame, at having been so stupid and so careless. But mostly he felt fear and resolution. There was a little girl out there and no one had noticed she was all alone, except for a doorman. Or so the story went.

“I’ve looked at the files you have and done the math,” Leslie said. “And thank your lucky stars their doctors were British, not Chinese, or we’d really be up shit creek. It’s not definitive, but everything appears to line up. Between that and what you know about the mother, the little girl could very well be yours, biologically.”

“And even if she weren’t, you’re still named as the guardian,” Rachel pointed out. “But the paperwork.”

“Hire as many experts as you need. Consultants. In-country associates. And let me know if you find the currency we’ve set aside sufficient for the task.”

“Don’t worry,” Rachel said. “We are in the right, here. Legally and morally. Your name is on the birth certificate. You’re even still approved as an emergency foster placement, thanks to that battle-axe of a nun. It’s my considered opinion that money and red tape are the only real obstacles.”

“I still think I should be the one to go.” He had lost the argument hours ago, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Bruce,” Rachel explained, again. “You’d be in the way. You’re too invested. You might get arrested and kicked out of your residency program. And we need to hold you in reserve in case things escalate.”

“There are only two rooms left upstairs,” Alfred said to his coffee, apropos of nothing. “They both have private bathrooms, so either is suited for a girl.”

“I have some other concerns.” Leslie pushed a folder across the table to Bruce. “This is what the consulate claims is her full medical record. There are huge holes. Pages missing, chunks of notes. Reports referenced, but not included.”

“Like what?” Selina spoke for the first time.

“Developmental milestones, mostly.” Leslie’s tone was as frank as always. But she was picking her words carefully. “The growth charts are perfectly normal, as are the notes of the physical exam. But there are references to American and British sign language. Consults for otolaryngologists, audiologists, speech pathologists. But all the referral forms are gone.”

“Is she deaf?” Selina asked. “Or...I don’t know. Speech impaired?”

“Yes.” Leslie made direct eye contact with Bruce. “I think she may have significant speech delays. I think she may be mute. This is not a fully informed opinion, but I want you to be aware.”

“I’m going to need an interpreter. American and British sign language.” Rachel said, picking up her phone. She dialed from memory and stepped out of the room.

“Hmm,” Tim murmured, half-asleep. “I hope Kendra can teach us to sign. Or Victor.”

“We can learn to sign,” Dick affirmed.

“I am…” Bruce was at a loss for a moment. “I am very happy that you’re excited to meet your sister. I know it’s a surprise. For all of us.”

“No offense,” Dick said, “but how surprised can you really be?”

Selina snorted, then tried to cover by clearing her throat. Instead, the giggles set in. She tried her best to stop, but... Soon Alfred was chuckling, too, although Leslie was clearing kicking him under the table.

“That is a perfectly fair point,” Bruce admitted, still struggling to come up with words equal to this moment. “I wasn’t expecting to have a family so big. So thank you for your patience.”

“Oh, we can always open up the east wing,” Alfred suggested. “Your mother always wanted to redecorate. Plenty more rooms over there”

“I thought I cut you off,” Leslie said to him. “You’ve been overserved.”

“No one cuts me off in my own home,” he said with exaggerated dignity.

“I thought this was Bruce’s house,” Dick said.

“Ha,” It was Leslie’s turn to scoff. “Is that so. Bruce, where’s the circuit breaker?”

“Okay,” Rachel returned to the room, breaking up the verbal scuffle. “I’ll have three different translators meeting me at the airport when I land. I’ve got a suite of three rooms for the week. I’ve gotten five family lawyers on three continents out of bed and working, time and a half. My bag is packed and by the front door. Ipm putting my laptop and charger in my briefcase now. What am I missing?”

“Gifts,” Selina said. “Cash will work for the doorman, but you’ll need something good for any officials or lawyers.”

“Alfred, do we still have the Tiffany--”

“At once.” Alfred was moving a little more carefully, but he no longer appeared to be absolutely sloshed.

“And for her,” Dick said. “She gets a present too, right?”

“Right,” Bruce said. “Selina, come with me. Boys, you too. Time for bed.”

* * *

Selina and Leslie’s eyes met over the table. Selina widened her eyes. Leslie nodded. Bruce led them up the stairs like ducklings. Instead of going to their own rooms, the boys followed them into Bruce’s room. Selina made a gesture with her head, and they climbed into Bruce’s enormous bed. Selina set Bettie Page in between them. The cat looked around suspiciously before cautiously settling. Tim and Dick appeared to be fast asleep already, mouths open. Bruce was rummaging around in his closet and returned with an antique jewelry box, made of some beautiful dark wood. Selina was guessing calamander. Bruce thrust it in her direction.

“Pick something,” he said, then sat heavily on the settee. Soft yellow light leaked out from the open closet door. It smelled faintly of cedar, just like his clothes did.

“Are you coming unglued?” she asked, taking a seat beside him.

“Maybe a little.”

“That’s okay. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.” Selina began to sort through the items inside the box. Very tasteful, if her assumption was correct and these were mostly from the 80’s. Some of it was a little Cyndi Lauper, but for the most part they were conservative materials in beautiful settings. 

“Here it is,” Selina said confidently. She held out a gold pendant on a heavy gold chain. It was an antique locket, with a single rose. Victorian, if she had to guess. But she didn’t have to. 

“Why this one?” he asked. “It’s...old.”

“Little girls love lockets,” she said confidently. 

“They do?” Bruce carefully opened the locket with his thumbnail, revealing two children, a boy and a girl, in Edwardian dress. His maternal grandmother and great-uncle.

“It’s the two things they want most,” Selina said sadly. “It shows that they’re treasured by someone. And inside, the secret shows that they’re trusted. This will show her that you already think of her as a gift, and as your family.”

“I don’t know anything about girls.” His voice was suddenly hoarse. “I don’t know anything.”

“Bruce.” She leaned over and kissed him softly on the temple. “How long have you been awake?”

“We got the first call about her...yesterday?” He had the alarming look of a structure about to collapse in on itself.

“Then it’s past time for you to lie down for a little bit. I’ll take this downstairs and see Rachel off. Just lie down with the boys, for a few minutes.”

“There’s going to be three of them,” he whispered bleakly. “Three.”

“But there aren’t three yet. Come on. On your feet, Wayne.” She bullied him up and into the bed, not bothering to try and get him out of any of his clothes, just pulled his shoes off and dropped them on the floor. Tim twitched, rolled over, and continued snoring softly. Selina pushed Bruce a little further in, so she could pull the comforter fully over him. “Just close your eyes. Shh. I know. Just for a little bit. I’ll be right back.”

She left them there with Bettie Page, closing the door silently behind her. She caught Rachel in the front hall.

“Here,” Selina said. “This is for the girl. I don’t have any wrapping, but--”

“This is lovely. I’ll make sure to put it in something nice. Try not to let Bruce give himself an ulcer, okay?”

“We’ll do our best.”

In the kitchen, Leslie was making more coffee. Alfred was looking marginally more sober, but also more tired. Selina lowered herself into her chair and rest her head on the table for a moment.

“This is decaf,” Leslie said. “We all have to go to bed after this because Dick wakes up at six no matter what. Is Bruce coming?”

“No,” Selina shook her head. “I convinced him to lay down with the boys for a minute. Hopefully he’ll stay down for a while.”

“God willing and the Creek don’t rise,” Leslie muttered. “So, what’s the story?”

“Well.” Selina steeled herself. Bruce had offered her Alfred and Leslie. Had said they could be hers, too. “I’m afraid Bruce is going to quit residency before it even starts.”

“He wouldn’t,” Leslie said.

“Of course he would.” Alfred rubbed at his forehead.

“I know that I am new,” Selina said haltingly. “That you know Bruce much better. I don’t know what he was like before. But in France, before he--before we had to leave. He was so confident and driven. Focused. I think I was the only fun he had, most of the time. Ever since we’ve come home, and the boys, he’s just…at sea. He needs a mission. Outside of the house.”

“I agree.” Leslie folded her arms. “But what can we do?”

“We simply won’t allow it,” Alfred said. “There’s always Miss Kate. She seems to be moving away from the party scene. We have Miss Saunders in our corner now. And Mr. Stone. We’ll bring him in more often. I have been meaning to suggest that he could tutor Master Timothy in the principles of computer science, as well as helping Master Richard with maths.”

“He’ll feel like he’s farming out his duties,” Leslie pointed out.

“Only if we’re too obvious,” Selina said. “I think...I think, Alfred, I’ll start spending a weeknight here as well. And so will Leslie. We’ll be here for Bruce, not just the boys.”

“This house,” Alfred pronounced, “will be a well oiled machine.”

“The first year is always the worst,” Leslie warned. “Intern year is hell.”

“Bruce is brilliant. And he knows how to work hard. I’m not worried about him failing at work.” Selina sipped her decaf. “I’m worried about him feeling like a failure at home.”

“May I make a suggestion, Miss Kyle?” Alfred said. “It’s come to my attention that you are studying for your GED, perhaps with an eye to higher education.”

Selina looked down, her face hot. She had told Bruce, but she didn’t know Leslie and Alfred knew, too. Her feelings on the subject were mixed. They were just so...posh.

“I think you ought to do your studying here,” he finished. There was a crafty look on his face, like he was about to trick someone into eating their vegetables and liking it.

“What?” She looked up. “Why?”

“School is so easy for Master Tim that Master Richard is under the impression that he is the only one who has to work at it. Master Tim is under the impression that all adults must be as effortlessly intelligent as his father. And they will apply themselves more diligently if they think it will impress you.”

“Oh.” Selina considered. It was plausible.

“Ow,” Alfred glared at Leslie, who had clearly just kicked him under the table. “And. And I rather like having you about the manor, myself.”

“You do?” This was far less plausible.

“Miss Kyle, are you aware that in my youth I, too, trod the stage?”

“Trod the stage,” Leslie muttered. “Save me.”

“No, I didn’t know.” Selina looked from Leslie to Alfred. “I thought maybe you disapproved of my sort of theater.” She thought Alfred disapproved of her, period. Or perhaps tolerated her.

“No, Miss Kyle,” he said. “It is too long a story for tonight. But, no. I do not disapprove of your sort of theater, in the least.”

“Oh.” She turned her mug on the table, ignorant of the loaded silence around her. 

“I’m bushed,” Leslie said. “And we’re all going to be up in three hours anyway. Alf, go drink sixteen ounces of water and brush your teeth.”

“A well-oiled machine,” he said again, rising and heading towards his private rooms.

“You, too,” Leslie ordered. “Operation Residency starts tomorrow.”

“That’s a terrible code name.” Selina collected her mug and Alfred’s and put them into the sink to be dealt with later.

“Operation Family Practice?”

“Much better.”

Upstairs, Selina slid into Bruce’s darkened bedroom. The light in the closet was still on, faintly illuminating the occupants of the bed. Asleep, without their unique mannerisms, they really did look like father and sons. They also looked shockingly peaceful, given the events of the last two days. She walked around to the far side of the bed, and climbed in next to Tim, who had gravitated towards the middle of the bed, and his big brother, in his sleep.

She closed her eyes and tried to decide how she felt about this. This sort of nuclear family behavior was totally alien to her. She never remembered sharing a bed platonically with anyone but her fellow wards of the state. Next to her, Tim snored loud enough to wake himself up a little, then shifted and began breathing silently. She couldn’t help smiling. The boys were like little puppies, that wore themselves out all day chewing on slippers, only to pass out cold on the good furniture, too cute to disturb.

Bettie Page’s little clawed feet climbed up Selina’s spine and the kitten settled herself on the bed at the small of Selina’s back, effectively blocking her retreat from the bed. Traitor. No help for it. She might as well go to sleep. The last thing she remembered was Tim turning again. She opened one eye and saw him put his thumb in his mouth, frowning in concentration. 

It was so fucking cute. She was so screwed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three translators were waiting for her in the large black SUV that picked her up curbside: American Sign Language, British Sign Language, and Cantonese. Their driver was also a bodyguard. He did not speak, but he shook her hand and nodded, so she assumed that he worked for her. They began to make their way through traffic while Rachel tapped through her phone looking for what the press had to say. Whoever the rat was, they had sold their story to a local AMI rag and then it had been handed off to some bottom-feeder at the Gazette named Vicki Vale, who was slinging mud not only at Bruce, but also at the child she was calling Little Orphan Annie. The girl was here, the story was here, the AMI subsidiary was here--Rachel wondered if she could get standing in Hong Kong to sue Vale for defamation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to be disciplined and to keep signed dialog in italics and spoken dialog, or translated by a speaker, in quotes. Thanks for your patience!

The news broke while Rachel was on the plane. She and Bruce had expected that it would, but it was somewhat dispiriting to disembark to find reporters shouting questions at her in a variety of languages about secret love children and her client’s virility. Someone in the building, she’d bet, had taken the payday. She couldn’t sleep on the plane, so she worked furiously, then changed into a clean suit, washed her face, re-did her makeup, and dry-shampooed her hair. When she checked her reflection before landing, she looked tired, but tired in the way that busy people are. Not like the way that jet-lagged zombies with disastrous careers are tired.

Three translators were waiting for her in the large black SUV that picked her up curbside: American Sign Language, British Sign Language, and Cantonese. Their driver was also a bodyguard. He did not speak, but he shook her hand and nodded, so she assumed that he worked for her. They began to make their way through traffic while Rachel tapped through her phone looking for what the press had to say. Whoever the rat was, they had sold their story to a local AMI rag and then it had been handed off to some bottom-feeder at the Gazette named Vicki Vale, who was slinging mud not only at Bruce, but also at the child she was calling Little Orphan Annie. The girl was here, the story was here, the AMI subsidiary was here--Rachel wondered if she could get standing in Hong Kong to sue Vale for defamation.

She made a note in her Palm Pilot to talk to a local civil attorney. She wanted to sue the shit out of someone almost as badly as she wanted to go back two years in time and slap some common fucking sense into Harvey Dent. Or maybe herself. It was hard to say. The thing was, she’d fallen for Harvey when she was young and he was stable. Maybe if she’d said yes when he wanted to move in, maybe she would have noticed sooner that he wasn’t doing well. Maybe she could have convinced him to check himself in voluntarily. Maybe he wouldn’t have decompensated so far, so fast. Maybe she wouldn’t have had to find out by accidentally picking up his phone to find out there was a nun desperately looking for Bruce Wayne’s lawyer and could she please help a little boy’s future was at stake. 

That nun, the way she was pleading, that had been haunting Rachel. She had dreams where her car stereo switched over to sad nuns, or she opened her closet to find her shoes and Dick Grayson was there, curled into a ball.. The orphanage itself hadn’t been terrible. She knew that, logically. But it made her skin crawl. It smelled like school cafeterias and it looked like some sort of penal institution, with all the kids in matching gray and brown clothes. So, yeah. She hadn’t noticed when Harvey’s break started, so it was her job to throw herself on whatever grenade she had to, to bring this little girl home.

There was no press at the hotel, so they must be booked under an interesting pseudonym. The little girl had been staying here with Mrs. Bai, the wife of the doorman. It was unorthodox, which meant someone was probably trying to save face. And that made her nervous. She checked in under the name Darby Shaw. Someone from the Embassy met them at the bottom of the elevator, and Rachel performed the minimal amount of courtesies necessary to proceed.

Mrs. Bai met them at the door of the suite, bowed, and began speaking frantically. She wasn’t blocking their entrance, but she wasn’t really retreating, either. Rachel’s heart rate began to pick up.

“Where’s the girl?” Rachel demanded.

“Mrs. Bai says that you mustn’t be angry,” the translator began. “The girl is very perceptive and if you are angry, you will scare her.”

“Does she sign?”

“Yes.”

“British or American?”

“Both, mostly American.”

“What else?” Rachel took a deep inhale through the nose and out through the mouth, feeling determined rather than angry. Mrs. Bai’s tone became more pleading.

“They had…” The translator swallowed. “They had a doctor come to fix the child’s nose. It was broken, but it has been reset. The discoloration is the result of that. The doctor examined her and said it was all just bruises. The child has not been struck since her parents left, Mrs. Bai swears it.”

“I think,” Rachel said very calmly. “You had better take me to see the young lady now. What name does she prefer to go by?”

“Cassandra,” the translator said. “Her English name.”

“Take me to her now.”

The little girl, Cassandra, was sitting cross-legged against the headboard of a huge four poster bed, watching TV with the sound off. Her nose was indeed bandaged and she was sporting two black eyes, probably from the same blow. Rachel approached the edge of the bed, toed off her pumps, and raised herself up so she could sit at the foot of the bed, facing Cassandra but not looking too pointedly at her.

“Hello, Cassandra,” she said. Beside her, the ASL translator went to work. “My name is Rachel. I’m from America. Your father has been very worried about you.”

Cassandra frowned and signed back. She didn’t need to look at the translators’ signing to understand what was being said to her. But she didn’t speak on her own, either.

“Are you going to take me away from here?”

“Yes. I’m here to take you to live with your father.”

“Forever?”

“We don’t know yet. But for now.” Rachel didn’t like the expression on the little girl’s face. It wasn’t just the black eyes, that was bad enough, but it was the kind of hollowness that only came with shock. 

“I must bring our butsudan.”

“Her--what?”

“A butsudan,” the translator interjected. “It is a small family altar, a Buddhist item, from Japan.”

“Oh. Of course you may,” Rachel smiled. “And I have a gift for you, from your father. Your American father.”

“I like gifts.”

“Me, too.” Rachel reached into the inside pocket of her blazer. She had entirely forgotten the wrapping, but such was life in the fast lane. “Would you like me to fasten it?”

“No, I can do it.”

Cassandra did, then she deftly opened the locket and looked at the pictures.

“Who are these people?”

“They are your family, on your father’s mother’s side.”

“That little girl is pretty.”

“I believe she is your great-great grandmother, but you’ll have to ask your father to be sure.”

“I have all my things and my butsudan. I am ready.”

“You’re very brave, Cassandra. I’m going to step out and talk with some of the other adults, and then I should know more.”

“I can watch my cartoon.”

“Of course. Thanks for speaking with me, Cassandra.”

“Thank you, Miss Rachel.”

The little bruised girl on the bed stood up and gave a quick bow. Rachel reciprocated, hoping she was getting the etiquette right. Then she saw, now that the girl was standing, that there were hand-shaped bruises on her wrists, too. So maybe fuck etiquette a little. Rachel Dawes grew up in New Jersey. She fought her brothers. She fought school bullies. She fought the world. Rachel Dawes had once knifed the tires of four different NCAA Division I starting basketball players in a single night. They knew she did it. She knew they knew. She knew they knew why. Nobody said a goddamn thing.

She closed the bedroom door behind her. The men in suits appeared to have multiplied in her absence. They were all looking shifty as hell, especially the boys from the American embassy. Behind her, the driver-bodyguard took a casual position that just happened to be in front of Cassandra’s room. Good boy. Now it was time for Rachel to wing it. Something in between a motion to compel and slashing tires. 

“Alright, fellas,” she said, nodding to the Cantonese translator, and putting her hands on her hips. “Here’s how it’s gonna be. Bruce Wayne is a good man. An important man. A physician. But most importantly, a father. The last thing that such a man wants is to embarrass the mother of his child in such a way that would expose this incident to the general public.”

There was a deep exhalation around the room as the translator spoke. They all interpreted correctly: Bruce Wayne was not sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

“Nor would Bruce Wayne, a good and important man, wish to suggest that of you who might have known this little girl’s biological parentage, and said nothing. That’s why he sent me, gentlemen. Because I’ve seen the birth certificate and it does not say David Cain.”

The tension among the suits ratcheted up again at the sound of that name. Behind her, she felt the bodyguard cross his arms.

“So, like I said, here’s how it’s gonna be. I can stay here, and entertain my doubts. We have already retained the services of this town’s premier civil and legal firms. I assure you, we will find answers somewhere. I can start asking questions about how a man like Cain, with some very interesting political affiliations, a US civilian military contractor, came to be in a position to break Bruce Wayne’s daughter’s face.”

There was a kind of group flinch.

“Or. I can take Bruce Wayne’s daughter to her father, right now, as soon as my plane is gassed up and my pilots are replaced. You can have the appropriate custodial documents delivered to the tarmac in, say, two hours? Three seems more than fair. And that’s including stamped visas for me, Cassandra, and the bodyguard.” Rachel made a gimme motion.

“Ryan Choi, ma’am,” he said.

“And Ryan Choi.”

The men looked at one another, but said nothing. They thought she was bluffing. Rachel Dawes did not break her hand on a grown man’s face at her best friend’s quinceanera because she bluffed for a living. She did not slash tires because she bluffed for a living. Harvey Dent was not disbarred because she bluffed for a living.

“This is a limited time offer, boys. And it goes away as soon as her cartoon finishes.” She glanced at her watch. “Maybe eight more minutes? At that time, I either get my passport stamped, and hers, and the bodyguard’s, or I move in and start making motions to discover in every jurisdiction this beating might have occurred in. I wonder how soundproof the walls are, in David Cain’s flat. Do many important people live there? It looked nice, on paper.”

That last she said offhand, while moving to the mini bar. She popped open a $10 can of Coca-Cola and sipped. Damn, that was good. It felt...heavier? Definitely different sugar than the States. If she got the chance, and it didn’t ruin the badass persona she was going for, she was definitely taking some with her. She was eyeing the other sodas in the fridge when she heard the unmistakable plunking of a closing credits song in the other room. Without looking at the suits, she pulled out her phone and dialed Bruce Wayne’s home phone.

“Hello?” 

Well, that wasn’t the butler. She was pretty sure it was Dr. Thompkins.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Rachel, calling from Hong Kong. I’m going to need you to send my assistant, Jacob, to my condo. Tell him to pack my wardrobe and get on the next flight. It looks like I’m staying.” Rachel did not have an assistant or a condo. She had a studio with poor ventilation and all her clothes were at the dry cleaners. “Tell Bruce the girl’s been beaten, it looks like it was the boyfriend. Two black eyes and a broken nose.”

“That chickenshit motherfucker.” Definitely Dr. Thompkins. “Bruce is going to have a fucking stroke and then he’s going to be on the next flight and Alfred will probably bring his shotgun.”

“I tried to warn them. Have Jacob start setting up the morning shows, English and Cantonese. Just Hong Kong for now. I have a reliable translator now. If that doesn’t get results, I’ll take the girl in front of the cameras with me. Say, how fond is the populace here of their government?”

“Wait!” one of the American suits said, breaking off a conference. “Just...wait.”

“I’m on the phone,” Rachel said dismissively to the attache.

“Do these people know who they’re fucking with?” Dr. Thompkins hissed. “Alfred was SAS. He sends a thousand homemade pecan sandies to his surviving buddies every year. One phone call, and he’ll have you both extracted.”

“Retired SAS?” Rachel said blithely. “How interesting.”

“Miss,” the American tried to break in again. Rachel whipped her head around to look him in the eye.

“I said. I’m on. The phone.” She held his eyes and thought about plunging a switchblade through rubber tire walls. “Do you have a solution for me? Because if you’re going to interrupt my privileged conversations, I’m going to assume you have a solution and it involves paying me for my time.”

“We have a solution,” he gritted out.

“Lovely.” Rachel held up a one-moment-finger and turned away. “Belay that message to Jacob for the next ten minutes or so. If you don’t hear from me, tell Colonel Pennyworth to start making calls.”

“You better call me back or all hell’s gonna break loose.”

“Oh I am aware.” Rachel hung up and turned back to the American suit. “Well?”

“We are arranging for the documents now. It will be a few hours.”

“Great. We’ll be on the plane.”

“It would be better if--”

“Call us a car, please. We’re not leaving in the same one we arrived in,” the bodyguard said from behind her. “Miss Dawes.” He held the bedroom door open for her, inclining his head.

“Thank you,” she said. Rachel re-entered, slipped her shoes back on, and held her arms out to Cassandra, a gesture which she hoped needed no translation. 

Cassandra tapped the locket, which hung around her neck.

Rachel nodded.

Cassandra knee-crawled to the edge of the bed and allowed Rachel to pick her up, setting her on her hip. The same way that the little girl’s face had seemed hollow, her posture was limp and a little passive.

“This way.” Choi put his hand on her back, using the 

“Excuse me,” said the jackass American. Rachel ignored him and they kept moving.

“The butsudan,” said Choi, nodding towards an ornate vertical chest the size of a gaming monitor.

“We can ask the staff to bring it,” said the American.

“Are your arms broken?” Rachel asked pointedly.

He fumed. But he picked it up. Beside him, Mrs. Bai was saying something and wringing her hands.

“She wants to know if you are kidnappers,” said the bodyguard.

“Tell her we’re with the girl’s father and that it’s time to say goodbye. Get her contact information, if you can.”

He made it look effortless as he guided Rachel (holding Cassandra), the American suit (holding the butsudan), and Mrs. Bai into the elevator. The doors closed and the American turned to Rachel.

“Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take me to clean up this mess,” he hissed. Rachel could feel Cassandra cringe a little at his tone.

“First of all,” she said calmly, “I don’t work for you. I work for Bruce Wayne. Second of all, this girl is an American citizen. You were supposed to be working for her. Now put my luggage in the car like a good boy and then you can go back and give ‘em your best grovel.”

Steam didn’t actually poor out of his ears, but it was close. Mrs. Bai whispered a few more things to Cassandra and to Choi and then they were out in the lobby, the sidewalk, and into a towncar. As soon as it was in gear, Rachel sagged back against the seat, holding the little girl with arms that felt like noodles.

“You better make that call,” Ryan said from the front seat.

“Oh, shit.” Rachel scrambled for her phone. Everything felt slightly surreal and hazy with nerves and exhaustion. Had she really just ordered an American official to carry her luggage? And that wasn’t all. “I probably should have asked you first. But would you like to visit America on Wayne Enterprise’s dime? Or move there?”

“Um, yeah. That wasn’t a bluff?”

“I don’t bluff, Mr. Choi,” she said, and re-dialed her phone.

“Tell me you have her,” Bruce Wayne said.

“Bruce, I want to be on speaker. With all the grownups."  


"Why."

"Why? Why? In case you need a tranquilizer dart directly in the ass. And before you ask, yes, I do find international both bracing and edifying.”

There was a fumble and a beep as the phone took on a slightly tinny quality.

“I have her. We’re in the car on the way back to the field. If we can change the pilots, I can leave in the next two hours.”

“Is she hurt?”

“Not badly, I don’t think. ”

Bruce Wayne exhaled gustily. “Can I talk to her?”

“Sure, but I don’t know ASL. She may not be able to reply.”

“That’s okay.”

“Alright. Hey, sugar, do you want to listen to your father on the phone for a minute? Here.”

Rachel couldn’t make out what Bruce was saying, but his voice was low and gentle. Cassandra of course didn’t speak, but she used both hands to hold the phone to her ear and listened very intently. Bruce talked for a while, long enough for them to make it off the surface streets and onto the highway towards the private airfield. Then Cassandra took the phone away and handed it back to her.

“Mr. Wayne?”

“It’s Alfred.” He sounded shaken.

“Oh. Is everything alright?”

“Yes. It will be. Now, Dr. Thompkins will be waiting at the house when you arrive. Do you have any reason to believe young Miss Cassandra will require medical attention before then?”

“No, no, I think the couple who were looking after her took care of that. They had no reason to lie to me. Oh, and I hired a bodyguard. He probably needs help with a work visa? I have no idea.”

“Very good, I will reach out to Wayne Enterprises.”

“And just a heads up, she doesn’t talk, but I think she’s extremely aware of tone and body language.”

“Understood. We will see you soon.”

Rachel realized she had no idea what time it was anywhere. She’d been awake for a couple days and now that her adrenaline was fading, there was a very real chance she was going to pass out before they made it onto the plane.

“I can carry both of you if I need to,” said Ryan.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yep. Don’t worry, I’ll wake you up when I get to the plane.”

Rachel tightened her arms around the girl, interlacing her fingers, and rested her eyes. The next thing she knew, the car door was open and Ryan was shaking her shoulder gently. Her whole face felt like it was full of sand and her body was impossibly heavy.

“You can let her go,” the bodyguard said. “I can carry her.”

“If you drop her, I will let Alfred shoot you. He was SAS.”

“Understood.” He made it look easy, picking up Cassandra like she was a particularly fragile pillow

“Wait. The altar-thingy.”

“I’ll come back for it. Come on, you need to get horizontal before you pass out.”

Rachel stumbled at the bottom of the stairs, and was prepared to go face first into them, but a hand at her elbow and waist stopped her. She turned and saw their new pilot.

“Hi, angel-face,” said the pilot. He had a smile like a young Paul Newman, which was delectable, but she wasn’t taking anything on faith, ever again, fuck you very much Harvey.

“Who the fuck are you?” It came out a little slurred, actually, which was not great.

“Hal. Hal Jordan. Come on. Your chariot awaits.”

There was a bonafide bed in the back of the plane with real sheets and everything. The pilot and the bodyguard more or less carried her in and helped her out of her shoes and under the covers. Rachel stayed awake, or at least semi-conscious, long enough to be sure that Cassandra was on the bed with her, playing with someone’s smart phone. Then she heard the fuselage door being secured, and then she was out.

“Miss Dawes?” someone was saying quietly.

“Jesus Christ I will murder all of you in court,” she said. Or at least that’s what she thought she was saying.

“I thought you might want a chance to regroup before we land.”

“Land?” She opened one crusty eye. This was a plane. She was on it. She was still wearing slacks from three days ago. The bodyguard was still here. What the entire fuck. 

“Here.” The bodyguard set down a cup of coffee on a built in beside her and put a garment bag by her feet. Her garment bag. “We have about forty five minutes until final approach.”

“The girl?”

“In the cabin with me. I think she’s about to beat Angry Birds. The entire game.”

“Okay. Go away now so I can change.”

Rachel caught a glimpse of herself in the small lavatory mirror. She looked like she’d been pulled backwards through a hedge and then mauled by an affectionate labradoodle. Luckily, there were enough rich people toiletries included to get the old makeup off her face and the some of the old smell off of her person. In her garment bag was a less fashionable, less flattering shirt and skirt, that she had thought she’d never need to wear again. But they were blessedly clean. Her hair was a lost cause. She pulled into a topknot and called it good. In the cabin, there was more coffee. Cassandra was wearing a WE t-shirt like a nightgown and playing Angry Birds with the kind of concentration Rachel had only seen on Olympic athletes.

“This is amazing,” Ryan said. “I think she’s a prodigy.”

“Good,” said Rachel, downing more coffee. The kid deserved to get one thing easy. Even if that thing was Angry Birds. “Did she sleep at all?”

“Yeah, but not as well as you

She cast a gimlet eye at him and he just smiled. Their landing was smooth, and Cassandra strained to look out the window the whole time. At touch down, she clapped her hands together once with great satisfaction. To no one’s surprise, there was a luxury SUV waiting for them. It was a bit of a surprise, though, that Selina was driving and Bruce was in the passenger seat. There didn’t appear to be anyone else.

Rachel exited first, followed by Ryan, who had wrapped Cassandra in his windbreaker. It made her look even more vulnerable, though she was a bit put out that someone had taken the smartphone and Angry Birds away. 

* * *

“Bruce,” Selina snapped her fingers. “Bruce. Bat.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what Alfred said about body language?”

“Yes.”

“So you can’t go running at the plane like somebody set your pants on fire.”

“I know that.”

“Because right now you look like a man whose pants are on fire. Like the flames have just reached your crotch and you know what they’ll scorch next.”

Bruce turned to her and glowered in anticipatory disapproval of her talking like that around his children.

“Oh, yes,” she said, sipping at her thermos. “That’s a much better face. Like someone’s actively removing a corncob from your rectum.”

“Why does all this imagery involve mistreatment of my backside?”

“Wishful thinking I guess,” she said smugly. Bruce blushed. “That’s better,” she noted. “Much more human.”

The door of the plane opened and Rachel exited first. She looked like a woman who had done legal combat and won, but still hadn’t had a shower or a meal in three days. Behind her was a fit man carrying a bundled child, the bodyguard and Cassandra. Bruce threw open his door.

“Take a breath,” Selina said. “Walk slowly. Keep breathing.”

“Got it.” He shut the door behind him and Selina sat motionless except for her own breath. She couldn’t hear what was happening outside the car. It was a blustery early morning and the wind carried most of the words away. She saw Bruce approach, looking steady and respectable. Rachel made some sort of verbal introduction, then Bruce made the series of signs he had learned by rote from the internet.

_ Hello, my name is B-R-U-C-E. _

Cassandra held up a hand, fingers, spread, and turned it sideways to gently touch her thumb go her forehead. They knew that one, too, from the internet.

_ Father _ .

Selina swallowed around a suspicious lump in her throat. Stupid kid feelings. Bruce held out his arms and took possession of his daughter. Slowly, everyone climbed into the car. The new bodyguard got into the passenger seat and introduced himself as Ryan Choi. Rachel slumped into the seat behind Selina and Bruce and Cassandra came in after that. Her eye sockets were fading to that particular shade of chartreuse that clung to human skin. Poor kitten.

Selina had just put her hand on the gearshift, when she saw someone jogging towards them from the plane. He looked like the pilot and he looked...very, very attractive. Good heavens. Selina kept the car in park and rolled down her window.

“Hello,” she purred, keeping one eye on Bruce in the rear view mirror.

“Hey,” said the handsome pilot, dodging her eyeline. “Um. Mr. Wayne. I don’t know if you remember me or not, but. I have to ask a favor. I'm sorry to interrupt. I wouldn't bother you if...uh, I know you're busy.”

Bruce was blushing again. Very interesting. Cassandra looked almost as interested in this stranger as Selina was.

“Do you have a card?” she asked. “I’m afraid we’re in kind of a hurry to get home.”

“Yeah, sure,” the pilot dug around in his pocket, produced a card, and handed it to her.

“I’m Selina. I’ll make sure he calls.”

“Hal,” he said, with that devastatingly casual smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“See you soon, Hal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot stress enough how much I don't know about law and international politics, but if our current federal government is any indication, I don't really need to know squat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a week before Bruce called Hal.

It was a week before Bruce called Hal. First, they had to try and get Cassandra settled. Cassandra was tiny, bruised, and completely unafraid to face her new life. Bruce was a little crazy about her already. He was also one hundred percent completely paranoid that she might be hungry or thirsty or cold or in some way anything other than blissfully happy. He’d worried about Tim and Dick, but it was nothing like what he felt now. Bruce hadn’t thought of himself as anything like a sexist before, but he also couldn’t stop buying her things like those little socks with the lace around the edges or a bed with a canopy or lavender teddy bears or a complete set of Angelina Ballerina books. And an Angelina doll. And a doll of Angelina’s friend, who was also a mouse. There were a lot of books that had dolls and soon Cassandra had most of them.

After he and Cassandra had gone to their initial consultation with Dr. Jones, the best speech pathologist in Gotham, Bruce had experienced some kind of shopping fugue state at the Galleria and by the time they came back to the manor, Cassandra had not one but two American Girl Dolls and all their accessories. Some of the accoutrements hadn’t been in stock, but he was pretty sure he’d ordered them all to be delivered. Hard to say. She rode home in her booster seat, happy as a clam, with Ivy Ling under one arm and Rebecca Rubin under the other. 

When she was home and free of the car seat, she ran to Alfred and began trying to sign to him with her hands full of dolls, leaving him no choice but to smile and nod while Selina tried not to laugh outright. They were all learning ASL, of course, but it was much easier for Tim and Dick to pick up than the adults. Plus, Cassandra had a habit of slipping in the occasional British sign, or simply waving her hand airily to fill in a conversational blank. Luckily, she seemed more amused by her new family’s failings than offended. 

She hustled after Alfred, whom she had taken an instant liking to, treating him as her first stop and sounding board in all important matters. Alfred did not exactly discourage this behavior, since every conversation they had, no matter how confused or brief, was accompanied by a treat of some kind. Bruce came trailing after them, huge shopping bags full of miniature furniture, clothes, and associated books. 

“Very good, Miss Cassandra,” Alfred was saying. “Would you like a biscuit? I’ve just made some fresh.”

Cassandra walked behind him, eerily quiet for a small child, but face beaming with pleasure.

“Bruce,” Selina said, smiling at him like he was a particularly adorable, but behaviorally troubled puppy, “you have to stop. She’s going to run out of room for stuff. And at some point the boys are going to notice that she had five times as many toys as they do.”

“I know,” he said, putting his forehead in his hands. “But I couldn’t decide which one and then I got confused and everything was so tiny and…”

“And cute? Precious? Adorable?”

“What is wrong with me,” he whispered.

“Well, you have a daughter. She hasn’t been well treated. And now you’re spoiling her.”

“Bruce!” Dick yelled from the kitchen. “More dolls? More?”

Selina raised an eyebrow.

“I have to get it together,” he said to himself.

“You do.” She patted his hand. “Go call Hal. Speak to an adult outside the family for five minutes. Go get a beer with him. Stay away from FAO Schwarz.”

“Hnn.”

“Bat.”

“What if he wants to see me.” 

“See you?” Her mouth twitched as she produced Hal’s card. “Well, you can politely decline, or you can get us a nice room downtown and we can see him together. Your call.”

Bruce blinked, unaware that this had been a possibility. See him. Together. Selina just patted his hand again.

“I’m off to go assemble some doll furniture. You go call Hal and try not to buy any ponies.”

He wondered if his daughter would like a pony. Weren’t ponies mean tempered? Did you have to start on a pony? She was very gifted. She had learned all the tricks Dick had taught her, until Alfred had discovered Dick was teaching her back handsprings on her second night under his roof, and forbidden it. She could probably ride a horse. Maybe something gray and dappled...

“Bruce,” Selina said sharply. “No. Ponies.”

“Right.”

“Go. Call him. Buy nothing.”

Bruce ducked into the library and hid the American Girl Doll catalog, which was remarkably extensive, in the desk drawer next to FAO Schwartz and Disney catalogs. Just in case. FAO Schwartz had a rocking horse that you could actually ride, with a pastel rainbow mane. That was almost as good as a pony. He slid the drawer shut before he got himself into more trouble and picked up his phone instead.

“This is Jordan,” said Hal, sounding distracted. There were vaguely mechanical noises in the background.

“Hello, this is Bruce Wayne.”

“Mr. Wayne! Um. Hello.” The mechanical noises stopped, replaced by wind.

“I think, under the circumstances, you can call me Bruce.”

“Right. Well.” A pause. “So, this is weird as shit.”

“Yes, I. I’m sorry.” What had happened to his phone manners, anyway? “How can I be of assistance?”

“Well. The thing is.” On the other end, Hal inhaled deeply and exhaled in a rush. “I’m a little bit unemployed. Underemployed. Whatever. I don’t want a handout or a gimme job or anything. It’s just...you’re rich. I know you’re rich. And I’m sure you know people who use pilots or who have connections, aviation wise, and honestly anything non-aviation, more of a ground type job. Shoveling, maybe, I don’t know--” He was cut off by a blaring horn.

“Hal. Where are you?”

“Outside the Starbucks on Seventh and Burr.”

“Stay there, I’m on my way.”

Bruce got up, grabbed the SUV keys from the hall table, then yelled back towards the kitchen, “Alfred, we have to open up the guest wing.”

“There’s no need to raise your voice,” Alfred said, appearing much closer than anticipated. “I negotiated with Magdalena to have those rooms prepared days ago. Where exactly did you think that Master Ryan was living? Or Miss Kendra?”

“Kendra lives here now?”

“You offered her free housing a month ago, after the Hittite Chariot Incident, to induce her to stay.”

“Right, right. I did?”

Behind Alfred, Cassandra nibbled on shortbread, leaving a trail of buttery crumbs. She gave Bruce a little wave. He couldn’t help smiling back at her. Had he ever smiled so much in his life than he had in the last year? Best not to think about it. Did she need new shoes? She kept taking them off. Maybe she just objected to shoes on principle. She seemed to like the little lacey socks. Did she need more lacey socks?

“Master Bruce?”

“What?”

“I said,” Alfred sounded very unimpressed, extremely British, “were you running an urgent errand or were you hollering like a banshee for some entertainment purpose.”

Cassandra smiled, sensing that Bruce was in superficial trouble. She grabbed Alfred’s hand with her own greasy one and tugged. He bent over beside her.

“Yes, Miss?”

She made the father sign, but moved it out, and then something indistinct in front of her nose with two fingers.

“I’m sorry, treasure,” Alfred said patiently. “I don’t know that one yet.”

“I think I do.” Bruce cleared his throat. “She says that grandpa is funny.”

“Well.” It was Alfred’s turn to clear his throat, in the appropriate masculine way. “I am of course the only trained thespian in this house. It is a great delight to finally be appreciated as I deserve. No one else appreciates me as you do.”

_ Grandpa is funny _ .

“Indeed I am. Now, your father has business to attend to. Shall we go see if the boys would like a biscuit? Or shall we eat them all ourselves? I’m not sure they deserve any.”

_ Grandpa is funny _ .

She pattered off with Alfred in her lacey socks, cramming shortbread into her face. Bruce had to stop and hold still and breathe for a while, trying to reconcile the painful feeling in his ribcage with the idea of happiness. He had a sudden, wild longing for his mother. It had been years since he’d felt it so strongly, like his need and his love could make her appear. Just to talk to. Just for a little bit. Five minutes, that’s all he wanted, just to show her.

Bruce hurried outside and into the car, so that none of the kids might accidentally see him cry. 

* * *

Hal Jordan, formerly USAF, formerly charter air pilot, formerly employable, formerly contributing member of society, was pretty sure he didn’t look too homeless. He’d showered that morning at the Y, and shaved, and he was in clean clothes. But he knew he didn’t look particularly housed, either. He waited in jeans and a t-shirt with the rest of his worldly belongs in his backpack. 

But he could do this. He could ask his billionaire former fuckbuddy if he could couch surf for a while. No problem. 

A gray luxury SUV pulled up next to the curb and the passenger window rolled down. It was Bruce Wayne, looking a little tired, but otherwise happy to see him. Hal climbed in beside him, trying not to think about good the sex had been back then or how hungry he was right now.

“How’s it going?” he asked casually.

“Well,” Bruce looked at him balefully. “I’m a surprise father three times over this year. My eldest isn’t ready for summer school because he speaks too many languages and won’t write legibly in any of them. My middle child is afraid to go to summer school because now the other kids know he’s an illegitimate orphan and they talk behind his back. My youngest may not be ready for school in the fall because she has profound apraxia of speech and currently can express herself only with sign language, which I am struggling to learn because apparently I went to the Sorbonne for seven years to become an absolute dipshit. I start residency next month, although my house is essentially a child zoo. I’m dating the sexiest woman alive and last night we watched Wall-E and my butler’s girlfriend cried and we all had to pretend it wasn’t happening. Also, I can’t stop buying heteronormative toys.”

“Wow.” Hal blinked. “That was. A lot of honesty in a very short space of time.”

“Sorry.” Bruce pulled away from the curb.

“No, no. It’s fine. Not gonna lie though, kinda makes me feel shit about asking for help.”

“Please,” Bruce speared him with a quick side glance. “Let me fixate on someone else’s problems. I beg you.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Tell me about being unemployed.”

“So, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. Somebody told. About a year ago. I lost my job.” My family. My way of life. “I could have gone quietly, but. The thing is, I got pissed off and I wanted to make them say it. To say I was the best, but they wouldn’t have me, because I prefer fucking men. And that somehow disqualifies me from planes, which have never cared about my sexual orientation. I wanted to make them say it.

“Which is why you’re flying charter planes now, and not doing six figure defense consulting.”

“Well, I was flying charter planes. I got canned. I picked up your lawyer’s flight out of Hong Kong before they could process my paperwork. By the time I landed, I was fired.”

“What happened?”

“Last week I caught one of the other pilots attempting to. Well. Force himself, on an airport employee on a layover in Dubai. They did a cursory investigation. He had seniority. I’m the new guy.”

“Assault and battery?”

“More or less. I mean, he’s alive. But his face is pretty fucked up at the moment. Like, drinking through a straw.” Hal did not say that he’d half-hoped he’d killed the man, that he felt strongly that rapists deserved it.

“So where have you been staying since you got to Gotham?”

“Oh, you know. Around.” Very smooth, Jordan. There was an awkward pause. He could see the penny drop for Bruce.

“I am…” Bruce sighed. “I am very sorry that I didn’t call back sooner.”

“Well, to be fair, it sounds like you have a bit of a situation on your hands.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“You can make it up to me by letting me couch surf for a couple days. Or not, Jesus, you don’t have to make that face.” Hal drew back.

“What face?”

“It’s kind of a...Old Yeller type situation.”

“Well, I’m fairly certainly Alfred’s going to take me to the woodshed. So it’s not inaccurate.”

“Alfred being the butler who also raised you and is also helping with the kids?”

“Yes. He has a very strict code of morality and hospitality.”

“Morality like…” Please, Hal thought, not another righteous crusader against sodomy. He couldn’t take it.

“No, no, nothing like that.” Bruce hand-waved it away. “But he’s going to rake me over the coals when he finds out I had a friend in town that wasn’t staying with us. I’m toast. But, the good news is, my daughter finds it hilarious when I’m in trouble.”

“This I have to see.”

“She’s very stealthy. And the bodyguard just started teaching her tai chi, so she’ll only get worse. Or better. We’ve cleared the formal ballroom and filled it with gymnastics equipment to keep Dick from breaking anymore furniture on rainy days. And Selina bought Tim some horrible toy kit that’s basically a sentient erector set. He keeps programming it to do human things like brush its fake teeth. It’s disturbing.”

“You weren’t lying. Your house is a zoo.”

“Yeah, your room is between the tai-chi bodyguard and the antiquities scholar who keeps encouraging Tim to think deep thoughts about the afterlife and the ultimate destination of our souls.”

“I always said I was here for a good time, not a long time.”

“Oh, and whatever you do, don’t mention bees. Alfred’s colony swarmed and he’s bereft. Can’t even bring himself to consider another queen. You can ask him about the chickens, though. But not Leslie. Don’t ask Leslie anything.”

Entering the house was a little bit like slipping into some kind of opposite-day dimension where wealthy people were nice and down to earth. The butler, who was wearing khakis and a Mr. Rogers sweater, showed him to his room with the assistance of his adorable shadow, who was wearing incredibly frilly socks with her Gotham Knights t-shirt and leggings. Hot on their heels were two Brucelings, one of whom was silent and the other of whom might be physically incapable of shutting up. Eventually, they were chased off by the multiracial smokeshow from the airport.

“Hi,” he said.

“Did he buy anything while he was out with you?” she asked sharply.

“Uh, no?”

“Good. Good. We’re trying to break him of the habit.”

“Of spending money?”

“Dinner’s at six,” she said, ignoring him. “Dirty clothes go in the hamper in your closet. If you need a ride, just let Alfred know and he’ll get you the right set of keys. There’s a full dop kit in your bathroom, but let me know if you need anything else and I’ll steal it from Bruce. Any questions?”

“Is this how all rich people are?”

“Oh, definitely not.” She scoffed. “Anyway, welcome to the madhouse. I have to go. Dick’s been threatening to climb up to the chandelier and if we’re not careful he’s going to make good on it. Don’t sneak him any candy, I’m still trying to buy his love that way, and if Alfred finds out, we’re all sunk. I already own Cassandra’s love and I haven’t figured out Tim’s currency yet, but I will. This week’s menu is set, but if you compliment Alfred’s weird British desserts, he will absolutely make you whatever you want.”

Hal looked around at the room, which was nicer than the nicest hotel rooms he’d ever stayed in, and wondered how long he could stay until someone kicked him out. Because he was not leaving a minute before that. 

* * *

That night, after dinner, Cass had what Dr. Leslie later called ‘a fucking meltdown.’ Dr. Leslie was kind, but not in a soft and cuddly way. She was kind like the flat side of a blade followed by a bag of ice. Dr. Leslie wasn’t there for the movie, though, but everyone else was. They were all together in the comfy room and Cass was sitting between her father and Selina, who was always sneaking her twists of White Rabbit candy when no one else was looking. Selina was very sneaky. 

They were watching a movie about a very clumsy panda who became a warrior. The animation was good and Cass thought it was very clever for them to use the same animal as fighting style. She tried to explain this, but it was lost in the translation, and also she didn’t know all the animal signs. Her new family felt guilty, though, and Selina slipped her a White Rabbit candy. Cass hid the candy in the top of her socks. They were very elaborately trimmed, with all kinds of frills. She didn’t really like frills, but they made it easy to hide candies and other treats around her ankles.

It was a funny movie, but then they got to the training sequence, and Tigress… The next thing she knew, she was wailing inconsolably. Her father was holding onto her and rocking her back and forth.

“What’s wrong with her?” Dick was asking.

“What do we do? What do we do?” Tim repeated over and over, sounding more and more upset. She didn’t like that.

Cass pushed at her father’s arms a little so she could turn sideways and sign.

_ Mother. Just like mother. I’m sorry that I cry. Sorry sorry. _

“No, no, no,” Father said, his voice rumbling in his chest where she could hear it. “No sorry. Does anyone else know what else she’s signing?”

“She says it’s just like her mother.” That was father’s friend, the homeless pilot one who was living in the other wing now with the other strange adults. No one else seemed to know he was homeless though, so she didn’t tell. But they should be looking closer.

“You know ASL?” Her father sounded surprised.

“I spent two months in Bagram.” The pilot shrugged. “There wasn’t much to do and if I learned any more Pashto, they were going to stick me in intelligence.”

“You speak Pashto?”

“Not now, Bat,” Selina said.

_ She fights like my mother. _

“She says the tiger fights like her mother. Was your mom a martial artist?” the pilot asked.

_ No...a… _ Cass frowned.  _ On film. Not real. _ Pointed at the screen, where Tigress was frozen on pause.

“An actor?” Grandfather asked.

“No,” Dick said, in dawning comprehension. “She was a stuntwoman.”

_ Yes! And she made other people fight. Each other. Pretend. _

“A choreographer?” the pilot asked.

_ Yes! Yes! _

There was a sigh of relief and understanding around the room. 

“Do you want to watch something different, treasure?” asked Grandfather.

Cass swallowed hard and looked down. She wasn’t supposed to disagree with her elders. Her brothers had chosen this movie. They ought to watch this movie.

“I don’t like pandas,” Tim said, his voice a little thin. “I just remembered.”

“Yeah me either,” Dick said. “I want to watch  _ Singin’ in the Rain _ again instead.”

“Of course we can,” Father said. “I love  _ Singin’ in the Rain _ .” That was definitely a lie, but she liked sitting safely in his lap so she didn’t say anything, just snuggled in a little closer. 

“I’ll get it!” Dick said and bolted for the stairs.

Selina kissed her on the top of her head and Cass closed her eyes and hung on to her father a little tighter. Her little White Rabbit twists dug into her ankles, but she didn’t think anyone had noticed them. 

  
  
**June 2009**

“I passed my GED,” Selina blurted. 

She’d been keeping that secret for days now. Bruce was starting residency today and it felt so petty beside that. Logically, she knew that it wasn’t all that petty. But she wasn’t sure she could tolerate all that much praise for it, either. Alfred would probably want to bake a cake. And then the boys would want something special for dinner, like hamburgers. And then it would be a party and then… She wasn’t party ready. So that secret stayed inside of her until she was doing Elephants on the Reformer and it just fell out.

“Holy shit!” Harley clapped her hands. “Selina! Holy shit! Oh my shit, hop off, let’s do two roll downs, and then we’re going for drinks.”

“Harley, it’s ten am.”

“Still brunch hour!”

Selina allowed herself to be persuaded. Harley hooked her arm and they marched them down to a bar that wasn’t Selina’s style (dives with pool tables) or Harley’s (dives with unofficial parking lot fight clubs). This bar was...fussy. This was an Alfred bar, with delicate stemware and locally sourced ingredients. The menu out front didn’t have any prices on it.

“Doesn’t this look fun?” Harley asked.

Selina looked at her sideways.

“So much fun!” 

Harley steered them past more comfortable looking booths towards a high two-top with the kind of stools you had to perch on in a way that didn’t encourage drinking. Instead of vase, there was a small living succulent. How twee. Selina was prepared to say something sarcastic, but then Harley sat up straight at attention as their waiter approached.

“Welcome to Sage. My name is Pamela, and I’ll be your mixologist today.”

“Hi, Sage,” Harley said. “Shit. Pamela. Hi, Pamela.”

Pamela smiled benevolently as she handed them their menus. Pamela was at least six feet tall, with auburn hair and eyes that really were limpid verdant pools. She had on fashionable round glasses and a sweater dress in hunter green that clung to a figure both statuesque and zaftig.

“Two Bloody Marys, please,” Selina said, when it was clearly Harley wasn’t going to speak again. “Doubles.”

“How spicy?” Pam asked coolly.

“Dealer’s choice.”

“I’ll be back for the rest of your order.” She sauntered back behind the bar, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Well. I thought this was my celebration, but I tell you what, I’m not even mad.” Selina sipped her water.

“Shut up.”

“No wonder you never made a play for me. You like them built like a brick--”

Harley kicked her under the table and Selina shut up as Pamela returned with their menus and drinks. She smiled almost beatifically and then left them to their own devices. Selina couldn’t help tilting a little on her stool to watch her go.

“Don’t look.”

“She’s gorgeous, Harley.”

“I said don’t look!”

“Alright, alright. But you have great taste.” Selina opened her menu to find, predictably, salad, greens, and spring mix.

“She’s so out of my league.” Harley sipped her drink morosely. “I met her at a grad school mixer. She’s getting her PhD in ethnobotany. They had to give her a lab of her own because everything she grows is so poisonous they were afraid she might kill someone on accident. She says she’s researching traditional renaissance poisons, and I wouldn’t be mad if she murdered me.”

“How very Mother May I Sleep With Danger.” Selina kept scanning the menu, looking for something that sustain a woman after pilates.

“I know, I know. I have a type.”

“Oh, goddammit, Harley. Did you take me to celebrate at a vegan restaurant? Seriously?”

“Shut up and drink your Bloody Mary.”

* * *

It appeared that everyone in Bruce’s intern cohort already knew who he was. That didn’t surprise him. There was more than one civic building named after more than one members of his family/ What did surprise him was that they already had opinions about him. He had lived out of the country for ten years. He had gone into medicine, which was not a field of study that provided a lot of down time with which to make oneself infamous. But apparently he had accomplished this anyway.

“Do you think he’s figured out how babies are made yet or no?”

“I didn’t know you could buy a degree from the Sorbonne. Must be nice.”

“Terrible taste in women. Did you read that article about the Drakes? They basically looted Iraq for Hobby Lobby.”

“How many more do you think they’re are out there? Five? Ten? He’s going to have to reopen that orphanage.”

His ears were burning literally and metaphorically as he stood outside the small meeting room filled with pathology residents. Bruce hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but he’d stopped short outside the door when he realized they were speculating about his knowledge of reproduction (which, fair), but then when he’d waited to enter, the speculation just...hadn’t stopped. Now he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

“Should I handle this?”

Bruce jumped slightly, and turned to see a man perhaps a decade older than Alfred, but still with a thick head of white hair and lively eyes. His nametag was obscured by his stethoscope.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Bruce said quietly. “If they’re going to talk about my family, I’d rather know what they’re saying.”

“Very practical thinking. Are you a practical man?”

“Well…” Bruce shrugged one shoulder. “No one’s ever accused me of whimsy.”

“Ha!” The older man had a booming and resonant laughing, something striking and identifying. Inside the room, the chatter died away. 

He opened the door, and strode in. Bruce followed right behind him, keeping his face carefully expressionless. There was no muttering now. The leonine physician headed towards the lectern at the front of the room, which meant… Bruce’s stomach sank down into his shoes. There was one man at Gotham General whose good opinion he cared about. And now that man had discovered that a) the interns viewed Bruce with derision and b) Bruce was a coward who hid in halls while he was insulted by his peers..

“Hello, interns,” boomed the older man. “My name is Dr. Simon Trent. And for the next four years, you belong to me.”   
  


**July 2009**

There had been a hell of a storm last night. Leslie had been alone in her townhouse and for the first time in a long time, she wished she wasn’t. When she woke up during the night at the Manor, Alfred invariably woke up with her. 

“Is all well?” he would ask, usually half-asleep.

“Yes, yes,” she’d mutter.

“All is well,” he would say, and card his fingers through her coarse, graying hair. 

It wasn’t as pleasant to be woken by thunder and lightning and then have no one to wake up with. Maybe she was going soft in her old age. Leslie wasn’t sure how she felt about that. The air was still muggy, smelling like wet concrete, and so humid that her glass of tea rose hybrids was slippery. She’d caught it for the second time, resting it on her hip when she saw the still form of a child laid out in front of the clinic door, his head on a nylon backpack.

Leslie dropped the roses, sending them and their Waterford crystal to the pavement.

She sprang forward and landed on her knees, ignoring the way her joints protested. She pushed shaggy hair away from the child’s face and it was Peter and he was gray and struggling for every nearly inaudible breath. The fucking thunderstorm. 

“Dr. Thompkins?” Crystal, whose husband was back inside, was here on time. “Oh!” she gasped, then crouched down beside Leslie. They were both veterans, Leslie of the ER, and Crystal of the pediatric ICU. “Oh damn.”

“Crystal, take our bags. Unlock the front door. Open the second treatment room. Start oxygen. Go now.”

Crystal went. Leslie picked up Peter. He was underweight, but it still would have been a bit of a stretch for her, if she weren’t so full of adrenaline that her hair might stand up fall out. He was conscious enough to cling to her weakly, with grubby hands. Inside, the exam table was raised almost ninety degrees, so he would be sitting straight up. Crystal handed her an oxygen mask as she opened the tank wide and, bless her, slid a pulse oximeter onto Peter’s finger. There was a blue tinge to the nails.

“Pillow,” Leslie said, and Crystal slipped it under Peter’s knees. There was a terrible noise, under and above the steady hiss of the O2. God, the sound of it, a kid who couldn’t breathe. It never stopped making her want to jump in front of a bus. Leslie didn’t know where her stethoscope had come from, but it was in her hands now and she was listening to air whistling through on both inhale and exhale.

“Ninety,” Crystal reported, with the sad chirp of the oximeter. She made a note of it on the legal pad she’d magicked out from somewhere, along with the time. 

“Go lock the front door, but don’t bother with the sign. Oh, and check the sidewalk. I think the kid had a bag,” Leslie said. “We need the nebulizer and the albuterol first. And Atrovent. Find out if we still have Atrovent. Albuterol and ipratropium bromide. Start that. Then I want an IV. Saline, not ringers, in case we need Medrol later.”

“Yes, doctor,” Crystal said and moved into crisis management mode. The woman’s personal life was a train wreck, but she was one of the absolute best in the business.

“Peter,” Leslie said, and repeated it until the boy’s head lolled in her direction, his eyes half open. “You have asthma?”

He nodded and she realized he was pretty close to panicking or passing out, neither of which was acceptable. She pushed his shirt up and saw the entire musculature of his torso trying to help him breathe.

“An inhaler?” she demanded.

He shook his head.

“This is just oxygen right now. Are you allergic to any medications or food or anything?”

He shook his head again.

“Good. I’m in charge now. Do what I tell you, and you’re going to be okay.”

He nodded.

“I want you to focus on breathing in through your nose, and out through your mouth. We’re going to do the rest. You have one job. Got it?”

He nodded again, his face slack and clammy.

Crystal returned and quickly set the nebulizer up, charting as she went. As soon as it was going, Leslie replaced the oxygen mask with the nebulizer. Peter was looking slightly less gray, but his oxygen was still hovering at ninety-one. But it was up. There was air exchange.

“You are lucky,” Crystal was saying, in extremely mild tones, “that you hired me. Because this kid is dry as a bone and there’s no one else in this city who could make this stick.” 

“If you get tell me you have magnesium sulfate in the back, I will send you on a paid vacation, my hand to God.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Crystal said smoothly. “No inhaler in his bag, by the way.”

“So far so good, Peter,” Leslie said. “What you’re breathing in right now is going to help open up your lungs. It already is, I can tell.” She looked pointedly at the pulse-oximeter on his finger. “You’re getting more oxygen. See?”

“Bingo!” Crystal called from the back room, emerging triumphant with the magnesium.

“And this,” she nodded towards the IV, “is going to help relax the tense parts of your lungs and chest. Let’s do it over twenty minutes, yeah?”

Peter held out a hand so that she could see it was shaking.

“That’s normal, and the magnesium Crystal is giving you now may help that, too. It’s also normal to feel nervous or like you’re going to be sick to your stomach. Just pull the mask aside if you’re going to puke, okay?” Leslie quickly handed him a kidney basin. “Crystal, can we get a BP and temperature now?”

“Yes, doctor.”

“You’re doing great. Take a look at your oxygen now.” It was ninety two and now Peter was looking a little gray still, but the clamminess was receding. Leslie checked his nail beds and saw that the blue was fading also. They might still avoid an ambulance.

“Temp’s 100.1,” Crystal noted.

“Okay,” Leslie turned back to the boy. “Don’t try and talk yet. I’m going to ask you some questions, mostly guesses. I want you to give me thumbs up for yes, thumbs down for no, and thumbs sideways for you’re not sure or you don’t know or maybe. Got it?”

Thumbs up.

“A doctor told you before that you have asthma?”

Thumbs up.

“You used to have an inhaler but you don’t anymore?”

Thumbs up.

“Maybe you weren’t feeling good this week? Like you had a cold or a cough?”

Thumbs up.

“Peter, are you sleeping in a shelter at night?”

Sideways.

“Do your parents know where you are?”

Sideways.

“Are you parents around?”

Thumbs down.

“Were you indoors last night, during the thunderstorm?”

Sideways.

“Okay, just keep breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth. It’s getting easier, I can tell. Look at the oxygen number, if you don’t believe me. It was ninety when you got here, now it’s ninety three.”

Leslie turned away to hide her indecision. What now? What now. She was tidying up and reviewing the legal pad and thinking about what the flying fuck she was going to do next when she heard Peter pull the nebulizer mask away from his face. The little hiss sounded different. She turned on her heel prepared to reprimand him, but he beat her to it.

“Jason.” Wheeze. “Is my name.” Wheeze. “Jason.” Wheeze. “Todd.”

Leslie nodded and wrote it at the top of the notepad.

“And.” Wheeze. “Bruce Wayne.” Wheeze. “Is my father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have started writing the next part! But we have reached the end of NaNo content. Thanks for all the lovely comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all I know like five things about medicine, but everything I know about law I learned from The Closer and Major Crimes so you know how that goes.


End file.
